


Sehnsucht

by unicornpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Parentlock, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe
Summary: Sehnsucht: longing, pining, yearning, craving, intensely missing. An individual’s search for happiness while coping with the reality of unattainable wishes.John is here now, yes, yes he is. He and Rosie are back home in 221B with Sherlock, safe where they belong... but why is there still a hole deep inside Sherlock, wide and gaping and consuming? Does John feel it too? And what will it take to fill it?





	1. I want, I want, I want...

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my attempt at bringing myself some healing after series 4. (Yes, I realize it's been a year. I haven't been emotionally ready.) I just really need a happy ending for these two, so I'm writing one. I hope it brings some joy to you all as well.

John is standing in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom. The first aid kit rests in his hands. His eyes are wide and sad, his mouth is pushed down at the edges, and Sherlock wants... wants...

John speaks.

“Are you—”

Sherlock answers.

“Just a little.”

“Bleeding?”

“A smidgen.”

“Sherlock.”

“I know.”

“Let me—”

“I can't ask you to—”

“Of course you can.”

There's a pause. John is still, and then he isn't: he moves into the room with ease ( _he's only been in here one other time,_ Sherlock thinks, and for some reason he feels a hysterical sob-laugh-gasp climb up his throat. _And it was so long ago. So long..._ ) and crosses to Sherlock's bed, upon which Sherlock is sitting, legs dangling over the edge, bare shoulders slumped.

He flinches—reflex—when John moves a little too quickly, a little too swiftly; John's eyes grow, if possible, sadder. He stops in the middle of taking a step and Sherlock can see his whole body switch gears. The elevated foot falls slowly to the floor, and the rest of the steps are almost painfully careful. John stops a few inches away from Sherlock, facing him, and extends a hand cautiously. “Is this ok?” he asks, letting it hover above Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock swallows. _Is_ this ok? (He's already broken out in gooseflesh at the thought of John laying that warm palm gently against his skin, of John cleaning the blood off of his back and shoulders with dependable strokes. His skin sings with want of John.) (But if he comes closer—if John comes closer, and looks at Sherlock's back, striped and ridged with scars from a time that neither of them wish to remember─things are already tight and filled with painful memories here, and the last thing Sherlock wants to do is hurt John more than he's already done.)

(Why do they never touch each other?)

John lets out a little sigh. It's so light that Sherlock can't even hear it; he just sees John's mouth open, his chest fall... “You're bleeding,” John says, and his voice is low, like he's talking to a skittish animal. (He practically is.) “I understand if you don't want me to touch you, but someone needs to help—”

“No,” Sherlock blurts. _I want, I want, I want,_ he thinks. “It's not that. I don't... John... it's unpleasant.”

John forces a smile onto his lips, and Sherlock's heart flips and moans and _aches._ “I rather think I can handle unpleasant, yeah?” John asks. It's meant to be a joke, Sherlock can tell, but it falls horribly flat. Painfully flat. Because handling unpleasantness and simply being forced to endure it are two different things entirely. “I promise I won't hurt you,” John says. Smile falls completely away. That flash of guilt is there, burrowing down into the core of his deep blue eyes and taking up residence that's looking too permanent for Sherlock's liking. The flash of guilt that Sherlock knows is mirrored in his own gaze. The one that's been there ever since Mary—

And Sherlock Holmes can do many things, but one thing he cannot do is hurt John Watson; so if sparing this man means letting him examine wounds upon wounds upon wounds sustained during a time that's better off forgotten, then Sherlock will. “John, I would never... you would never...” Sherlock squirms, and leans unconsciously (consciously) towards John's extended hand. “I never think you will.”

The fingers of John's (left) hand (the one holding the first aid kit) twitch slightly, knuckles going white. Sherlock can hear John's voice in his head. _Maybe that's the problem,_ he would say if things were like they used to be. But they aren't, and so John keeps his mouth shut and nods. “I can...?” he trails off, waits for Sherlock's nod of approval, then gestures at the chair in the corner of the room. Sherlock crosses to it. Hooks his long legs around the sides and rests his forearms and his head on the back. Waits.

There's a slight hesitancy to John's footfalls that didn't used to exist as he follows Sherlock. He stops a few paces away from the chair and clears his throat as he stares as Sherlock's bare back.

A twisted gasp.

“How did...”

Sherlock knows what the question John is asking is, and he doesn't answer it. “The suspect had a knife, which he wielded with an accuracy that I did not expect,” Sherlock says with perhaps a touch more curtness to his tone than he intended to use. (Covers everything else up.) “I got away before he did too much damage, obviously, but he did ruin my best white shirt, which is inconvenient.”

John's breath is coming faster and louder now. “Who did this to you?”

Sherlock let's his eyes flutter shut. “I told you, John. The suspect—”

“Sherlock.” The word is strangled.

Sherlock waits before he answers. Breathes, deep and even, feels a catch in his throat. Feels the blood in his cheeks and running out of the laceration on his back. “Things happened when I was away,” he finally manages. (It isn't good enough. Nothing he says is ever good enough, nothing he _does_ is ever good enough, which is why—is why—)

John's next words ride on a growl accompanied by a rush of movement that stops a breath away from Sherlock. “Are they dead?”

“What?” (Sherlock knows. He just can't... he wants...)

“The people that did this to you. Are. They. Dead,” John growls.

Sherlock swallows tightly and whispers, “Yes.”

“ _Good._ ”

The word is charged with something that fills the room and presses down on both of them. Something that sends John forward until his fingers are hovering just above the ugly mess of scar tissue and fresh wounds that Sherlock knows crosses his back. ( _Do it, John,_ Sherlock thinks. Feels like he has a fever, everything hot and shivering and spinning. _Touch me. Do it._ Do it. _)_

“John...” Sherlock whispers into his arms. “Everything hurts.”

“God,” John breathes, and there's a split second more of this limbo-like uncertainty before his fingertips settle on one of the thickest scars—a ropy thing that knots the skin from the bottom of Sherlock's left scapula to the top of his right pelvis bone—and strokes lightly down it. Sherlock is wracked with a bone-deep shiver. “I know, Sherlock. I know it does. I'm going to... I'm going to go get a flannel...”

But he doesn't. He leans close (Sherlock feels John's warm puffs of breath nestle against his spine) braces the flat of his palm on Sherlock's (right) shoulder (fingers curl down, brush clavicle, stroke lightly against skin, and John is getting blood on his fingers which isn't good) and—

And then John's lips whisper lightly at the top of Sherlock's spine, lingering ever so slightly, and a shiver catapults through Sherlock again, jerking his head up off of his arms so quickly that he hears his neck pop. John jerks back too, blurts “Flannel,” again, and darts to the toilet.

_One. Two. Three—_ Sherlock begins counting the seconds as soon as John disappears from view, continues on as a rush of water sounds from the loo, counts on and on because he just doesn't want to _think—twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two._

John is back. A wet flannel is held with unnecessary care in both of his hands (strong hands, capable hands, doctor's hands, father's hands) and he's staring at it with impressive focus. Avoiding, but then Sherlock can't blame him, can he, not when he'd been doing the very same thing, albeit in his own peculiar way.

“Right,” John says under his breath. He comes around behind the chair and begins wiping gently at the fresh cut on Sherlock's back. The cloth is cold, but Sherlock squares his shoulders and doesn't shiver. “Right,” John repeats. “This is going to sting.”

He does something—there's an astringent smell and, yes, he's right, it stings—but Sherlock can't be bothered to pay attention to all of that, not when the edge of John's hand brushes against him, just so—

Shudder. Again. (Becoming embarrassing. Entirely unstoppable.)

John—bless him. Is that appropriate? To bless him? Yes. Just going to go with yes—doesn't seem to notice. Just keeps swabbing and hums shakily, and even though Sherlock _knows—_ knowsknowsknowsknows—he's just trying to distract the both of them, he let's it work. John is humming the theme for Jurassic Park in the slightly off-key way that he uses on Rosie when she wakes screaming from a nap, and Sherlock _wants._

“Plasters,” says John, seemingly to himself, taking a brief brake from the humming to shuffle around in his kit for a moment before resuming it as he sticks them efficiently to Sherlock. (It's a tiny bit amazing, isn't it? John Watson, minutes ago rejoicing over the death of someone who had inflicted _so much_ pain on Sherlock, now doing his very best to heal that same pain with all the mild-mannered gentleness in the world. In this moment, Sherlock loves him so fiercely and so silently that his body thrums.) He smooths them down gently with the tips of his fingers and swallows.

“Did... when...” he stops. Sherlock turns carefully in his chair to face him and John backs up a few steps. He has the plaster wrappers in his hands and he's shredding them methodically with his fingers. “Did you receive treatment when...?”

Sherlock thinks about lying. He thinks about squaring his shoulders and biting out a grin and telling John that he had someone competent and kind attending to him after every single torture session. He thinks about lying and saying that someone held him in that cell while he cried, that someone kissed his spine and washed his wounds and smoothed on plasters with warm, steady hands... but there is John. John, who tries so hard to tell the truth. John, who is the only one who has ever done these things for Sherlock because he's the only one Sherlock will _let_ do these things. And... and...

“No,” he says simply.

John clenches his jaw for half a second and the plaster wrappers fall to the floor. “Well,” he says, and his tone is gruff. “You're going to now.”

Sherlock clasps his hands very loosely and sits them on his knees. Glances up at John, then away, then up again; let's their eyes lock. “I know,” he whispers.

John doesn't smile at him. John hasn't smiled at him in a very long time.

 


	2. Texts Between Sherlock and Greg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When this shows up (...) it means the person on the other end of the phone is typing, then erasing what they said. Just so we're clear;)

**G. Lestrade** 10:56am

Is John coming? This is a nasty one.

 

_sent_ 10:56am

I am perfectly capable of attending to crime scenes on my own, Detective Inspector. Even, on occasion, solving the actual crime, regardless of how “nasty.” SH

 

**G. Lestrade** 11:00am

I know. Just thought he might like this one.

 

**G. Lestrade** 11:01am

And that you might like to have him here.

 

**G. Lestrade** 11:02am

You know we all like having him around.

 

_sent_ 11:03am

John is a father now. Just because he has moved back into Baker St. with me does not in any way mean that he plans on going back to our previous life. He has a child to think of now, and a steady job to uphold. I can't ask him to abandon that for my investigating of petty criminals. SH

 

_sent_ 11:03am

And of course you like having him around. He's John. SH

 

**G. Lestrade** 11:03am

**. . .**

 

**G. Lestrade** 11:04 am

Right. See you in 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one today, but don't worry: chapter three will be a lot longer. Talk to me on Twitter [ @unicornpoe!](https://twitter.com/unicornpoe)


	3. Requests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feels a pull in his sternum whenever he looks at John looking at Rosie, a pull that sets off a volley of unwelcome words in his head. (I love you I love you I love you I—)

Sherlock likes to think that he wouldn't throw himself in front of a moving object for this tiny human.

He likes to think that, but it's a complete lie.

The truth of the matter is, Sherlock would throw himself in front of _multiple_ moving objects for this tiny human.

Rosamund Mary Watson is perfect, and that's one point upon which Sherlock and John unfailingly agreed. For instance: she's currently sitting on the rug in the middle of the sitting room, a pile of periodic table building blocks scattered before her (Sherlock had purchased them a few months ago and simply deposited them in the sitting room without preamble. No one had acknowledged their appearance except for Rosie, who quickly refused to play with anything else) and arranging them in towers of increasing height and stability in front of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock bends down slightly, knocks the tallest of the towers over: Rosie sticks her tongue out (ah, a true Watson move) and rebuilds it, making sure to lay a foundation of two instead of one blocks down this time.

“John,” Sherlock says, not taking his eyes off of his goddaughter. “John, your child is a genius. She's mastering architectural techniques that, developmentally, she shouldn't master for another three months.”

John is in the kitchen making tea, but he pokes his head around the doorway to glance at his daughter. There's a fondness that softens the planes of his face that have become harsh in the past years whenever he looks at her. It pulls at his eyebrows and brightens his eyes, transforms his mouth from an unyielding line to a gentle curve. Sherlock feels a pull in his sternum when he looks at John looking at Rosie, a pull that sets off a volley of unwelcomed words in his head. _(I love you I love you I love you I love you I_ —)

“I'm just going to go ahead and claim it was my genes that made her that way,” John says. He walks into the sitting room with two cups of tea and hands one to Sherlock. “Although I think everyone knows she's learned her genius ways through osmosis.”

It takes Sherlock a moment to realize that he's just been complimented as he's a tad distracted. (John's hand touching a cup of tea touching Sherlock's hand touching a cup of tea touching—) But when he does, he blushes, _actually blushes_ , cheeks heating up, then neck, chest, down, and he should probably either say something or take the cup because John is staring at him with those sloe-colored eyes and that gentle mouth and—

“Tea,” Sherlock blurts, and pulls the offered beverage out of John's loose hand, taking an enormous gulp that scalds the whole inside of him immediately upon impact. Sherlock chokes, splutters, and shakes his head a little, hoping that the jostling will send his hair over his ears, because he _knows_ they turn bright red whenever he's embarrassed.

John raises his eyebrows and stands there a minute, hand still outstretched. He's staring at Sherlock's ears. Sherlock can _feel_ it. “Tea,” John finally repeats after a minute of wide-eyed staring. He lowers his hand. Then, “You alright?”

“Yes.” (No.)

Another moment of silence (broken only by Rosie as she babbles happily to herself, her block tower looming when Sherlock fails to knock it over). John nods, then lowers himself to the ground next to Rosie—his own teacup in hand—and beams at her as she stacks cobalt on top of erbium.

* * *

 

“Do—would you mind?—I feel bad having to ask you this—"

Sherlock huffs and turns to face John, crossing his arms. John is standing in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom again, shifting in an almost embarrassed way from foot to foot. He has his work trousers on, Sherlock sees, and not his date trousers, and even though Sherlock has told himself over and over again (has been telling himself over and over again ever since meeting John) not to feel relieved when John isn't dating, he still feels relieved when John isn't dating.

(Wants to cross the room and touch John softly on his cheek. Wants to—)

“Spit it out, John,” Sherlock snaps. He immediately regrets it when John's face goes a little darker, a little sharper, but he doesn't amend his words.

“You know what, never mind,” John says. He backs up a few steps but doesn't turn around, keeping his eyes locked with Sherlock's. “I'm sorry. You wouldn't want to...”

And he sees it now: sees what John came in here to ask him. It's in the way he clenches his right hand, in the narrow stance his feet assume, in the guarded set of his shoulders. And it's such a perfect thing, such a wonderful, longed-for thing, that Sherlock _does_ cross the room, although he forces himself to stop right before he lays his hands on the man before him.

(Calm.) “No I do want to, I do, I do.” (That wasn't calm.) (Idiot.) “Please, John—“

Stops. The look on John's face... sad, amazed, slightly horrified, just a little bit longing, although that last one doesn't make sense, it doesn't make sense at all, but it ignites Sherlock and cuts off his breath (why can he never _breathe_ anymore?) and. Oh. Oh.

Oh.

“ _You_ don't... want me to.”

It isn't a question. Why would John want Sherlock—an addict, an idiot, an asshole, a liar—to watch his daughter with no one else in the flat? The person that he loves most in the world? (For it's obvious that that's the favor he came up here to ask. John must have changed his mind. Must have realized how terrible an idea it really was.) Sherlock's knees feel suddenly weak. His hands shake. He clasps them behind his back and refuses to meet John's eyes.

“No, _god,_ that's not it at all Sherlock.” John's words tangle over themselves in his rush to get them out. He takes a step forward and his shoes—brown, worn, bought for him by Mary in their third month of marriage—appear on the floor in front of Sherlock. Sherlock lets his gaze travel slowly up John, sliding over dark trousers and up his compact body, ghosting along the width of his shoulders and neck and resting, finally, on his wide eyes. “Sorry. I'm not—we're not any good at this, are we? This... talking.”

Sherlock swallows. “No,” he says softly. “No we aren't.”

John nods, and it's a jerky movement. He rests one hand absent-mindlessly on his hip and licks his lips. (Does he know what that does to Sherlock?) (Absolutely tears him apart is what it does.) “Well. I... I want to be better. With you. I want to...” he steps forward again. “You're my best friend,” he says in a small voice. “And I want us to be... better.”

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth three times before any sound will come out. “I want that too, John,” he says at last. “And I want... I want to watch Rosie. Please. If you'll let me.”

John looks up at him from under his eyelashes, which somehow manages to be simultaneously self-deprecating and coy. He laughs a little─and it isn't his old laugh, the one that was almost a giggle, but it's the closest to it that Sherlock's heard in months. “You really love her, don't you?” John asks.

_I really love both of you,_ Sherlock thinks. But he doesn't say that; instead he just nods, and tries to speak over the thumping of his own heart. “Yes. I really love her. More than... more than almost anything.”

(It's hard for him to admit this. It's hard for him to admit anything that has to do with emotions. But he's trying, he's trying _so hard_.)

John licks his lips again. “Of course I'll let you,” he says gruffly. “Of course.” Chest rises and falls. “This conversation turned inside out, didn't it?” he asks. An attempt at lightness that nearly works. “I thought I'd have to be the one doing the begging.”

“You never have to beg me for anything.” The words are out before Sherlock even plans on saying them. He feels his eyes widen—who's slightly horrified now?—and begins cursing himself fluently in his mind.

But John: John. John doesn't brush Sherlock off. He doesn't scoff or laugh. He nods again, and repeats the words that Sherlock had said to him that night he'd been stabbed: “I know.”

John launches into a stream of details (he'd be working for six hours, there was a fresh pan of lasagna in the refrigerator, Molly and Mrs. Hudson will both be out so Sherlock would have to call John at the clinic if anything went wrong, and does Sherlock know that Rosie always naps at the same hour every day?) (Of course Sherlock knows) and the two of them migrate to the sitting room. Sherlock trails behind John as he talks, watches while he dons his coat and scarf, stands with his hands folded behind his back as he grabs his keys, waits in that same position as John climbs upstairs, putters for a bit, and descends holding one very sleepy Rosie.

They meet in the middle of the room and John passes her over into Sherlock's waiting arms. (She's so soft, so warm, so—) Sherlock melts a little bit when she curls herself easily into him, tucking her downy head under his chin and nudging him in the stomach with her blue-socked feet. He buries his face in her hair for a moment and shuts his eyes tightly. Lets himself breathe in her baby-scent and feel her heartbeat pressed closed to his own. “Good morning, Watson,” he murmurs.

When he lifts his head John is staring at them, a peculiar look on his face. Before Sherlock can decipher it John steps close and kisses Rosie first on the forehead and then on her hand. He's close enough that Sherlock can smell the cheap shampoo he uses—and then he's stepped back, keeps stepping back, makes it to the door.

“Right,” he says. Bracingly. A battle cry. He waves a little. “Thanks again, Sherlock.”

“Of course.”

“I love you,” John says, and for one wild moment Sherlock thinks he's talking to him. His heart bucks in his chest and he looks at John, but John's eyes are on Rosie although his cheeks are slightly pink, and then they slide to Sherlock, snag on his gaze for half a second—

And then he's gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for all of the ust, guys. (I'm not sorry at all.) Thanks for reading!


	4. It's Always Him, Isn't It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John closes his door and crosses to his desk. He perches in his chair and buries his face in his hands and curses himself because there's really no stopping this train of thought once it's started, is there?
> 
> Sherlock.

John jabs with more force than is strictly necessary at the buttons on his phone. Violet the receptionist gives him the side-eye which he ignores in a practiced way. Always been judgy, has that one.

The phone rings once, twice, three times—John sighs. Sherlock never picks up his phone—and then he almost drops his cell when Sherlock's voice comes over the other end.

“John,” he says. No hellos for that one. He's slightly out of breath and there's the muffled sound of what is unmistakably Rosie's maniacal squealing in the background. John smiles. He can't help it. “Hello. We're doing fine, before you ask.”

“Sounds like it,” John says. He feels his smile grow, then fade away once more when he remembers why he called. He clears his throat. “Someone called in sick, so they need me to stay on for another shift. I'm sorry. I think Molly's off by now if you want me to ring her—“

“ _John._ ”

The voice on the other end is admonishing and exasperated at the same time, and John grins as he leans against Violet's desk. She raises one heavily-penciled eyebrow at him and he gives her a polite nod that's just this side of cheeky. “Right, didn't think so. Well in that case I'll see you in a few hours. Ring me if you need anything.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says. Then, a bit muffled, “No, love, don't put that in your mouth...”

“Bye, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, John.”

John hangs up, and slides his phone into his pocket.

“Why are you smiling like an idiot?” Violet asks him.

In another world, Violet the receptionist is just the type of woman John would have gone after. Confident, pretty but not unattainable, dry sense of humor. But now, instead of feeling comfortably turned on when they talk, he feels... nothing. He tells himself that it's because of Mary. The guilt that he holds. The fact that she's only been gone for eight months and he's already moved on when he still hasn't even moved past the first time Sherlock died...

“Oh well you aren't now,” Violet observes, leaning her chin on her hand. “Smiling like an idiot, I mean.”

“Yes, thank you for your observations,” John snaps, feeling like Sherlock. He turns and makes his way back into his office.

God. He should feel worse about her—about Mary—he knows he should. Or no: he should feel worse about Mary _and nothing else._ He feels terrible when he thinks about Rosie growing up without a mother and he feels almost worse ( _not good, definitely not good_ ) when he thinks about the way he treated Sherlock after Mary's death, but when he remembers that his wife is dead, he simply feels the sorrow that he feels when anyone's life is cut unexpectedly short. Not the amount of sorrow that he felt when Sherlock died. Certainly not the amount that he _should_ feel.

John closes his door and crosses to his desk. He perches in his chair and buries his face in his hands and curses himself because there's really no stopping this train of thought once it's started, is there?

Sherlock.

It's always him, isn't it?

There was never really any discussion about John and Rosie moving back in to 221B. John had simply come over one day to apologize again (one of the many days that he and Sherlock had spent in what seemed like an endless cycle of apologies and forgiveness and tears on both of their parts) and then never left. Bit by bit he'd begun moving his stuff back in to Baker Street until, one bright morning that John thinks he'll remember for the rest of his life, Sherlock had turned to him—pocketing his phone—and said “By the way, John, you and Rosie are no longer residents of that horrid flat. The rest of your things are being moved here this evening.” And then he'd wandered away to mix something with something else in a petri dish, and that had been that.

Then Baker Street had exploded, of course, which had halted things somewhat.

The damage hadn't been as bad as any of them had expected. Things were badly singed, of course, and the whole top half of the front wall was obliterated, but Mrs. Hudson's flat as well as 221C had escaped the worst of the damage, and most of their stuff was salvageable.

Nevertheless, John, Sherlock, and Rosie had had to stay in a hotel ( _thanks, Mycroft,_ John thinks now. And then, y _ou big_ tit, just for the hell of it) for the better part of a week while their home was restored. And John had dreaded this. Sherlock and hotels are never a good mix. The man revels in spending hours in the lobby and pointing out the flaws in everyone around him, or identifying all of the strange substances that most people usually just overlook out of respect for their own sanity spread over the bed in vivid, disgusting detail. But those four days had been... had been...

(John let's his forehead drop to his desk. He's a hopeless idiot.)

They'd been some of the best he'd had since Sherlock had died.

Sherlock was absolutely charming. He'd treated every person they came across—every patron, every maid—with utmost politeness, saving his scathing deductions for quiet nights back in either John's or Sherlock's room. He had actually _asked_ before he'd informed John that there was a liberal coating of semen mixed with diluted peanut oil smeared all over his headboard. (John didn't want to know, didn't even want to _contemplate_ how that had gotten there). He'd played with Rosie when John wanted a nap, caught a taxi for them all when they wanted to go check on progress at Baker Street (because John can't flag one down for the life of him, dammit) and kept his moping over his lack of cases to a bare minimum.

And then they'd returned home. And Sherlock had _kept doing it. Keeps_ doing it. In fact, he's being so damned kind, so damned helpful and eager and sometimes shy and all the times beautiful that John just—

There's a knock in his door. John sits up straight, and pushes all thoughts of Sherlock out of his mind.

These are thoughts for nights spent alone in an empty bed. He knows this. Sometimes it's just... so hard.

* * *

John climbs the seventeen steps to 221B with trudging steps. It's been a long day. Two kids had thrown up on him, one mother had ripped him a new one when he'd dared to tell her that the only thing wrong with little Timmy was a common cold, and he'd spilled a hot cup of coffee all over his trousers.

So John can be forgiven if he doesn't look up immediately upon stumbling through the door to his flat. And he can be forgiven if, when he does, he stops in his tracks. And he can be forgiven if, when he does, he feels the stinging prick of tears behind his eyelids.

Sherlock's stretched out upon the sofa in his usual way, long, lithe body barely fitting, blue dressing gown spilling over the edges and trailing the floor—except now his eyes are shut with the limpid heaviness of deep sleep, and instead of notching prayer-positioned hands under his chin, they're wrapped loosely around Rosie, who's curled up in a chubby ball on his thin chest.

And it's funny, isn't it: how loving someone (two someone's) so fiercely can hurt so much.

John pulls out his phone and snaps a photo. For posterity.

* * *

John doesn't really notice at first. The texts. If they aren't those bloody seductive moans that indicate correspondence with Irene Adler then he doesn't really care who Sherlock is texting. But then they keep coming. And coming, and coming—seven of them, he's pretty sure, and he glances up from wiping yogurt off of Rosie's face at his friend.

Sherlock is sitting on the other side of the table reading the newspaper (or at the very least pretending to: his eyes haven't moved in the last thirty seconds) and eating a muffin with painstaking slowness. He doesn't look up at John, even when John knows he can tell he's looking at him, and he stays perfectly perfectly perfectly still until—

—text alert—

And there it is. A tiny, almost invisible twitch of his left eyebrow. John huffs a small laugh and the eyebrow twitches again at the noise.

John looks back down at his daughter and spoons another bite of yogurt into her tiny pink mouth. She smiles at him sloppily around the spoon, and he places a quick kiss on her temple. He goes for the least aggressive voice he can muster when he says, “Might want to check those, yeah?”

Sherlock remains still and silent. _Like a fucking gorgeous rock,_ John thinks a bit distractedly.

“Could be important,” he adds. “I've been counting—“

“Thrilling,” Sherlock says, though he lacks much of his usual drawl.

“—and eight seems like quite a lot just to be something casual.” John laughs again, and this time it makes noise, and Sherlock's head snaps up sharply to stare at him. “Although I doubt you do much of anything casually, do you?”

Sherlock's clear, ice-floe-grey eyes are unwavering as he pinions John with his gaze. “No,” he says slowly. “Casual is not my preferred modus operandi.”

There's another moment where they both just stare at each other across the breakfast table and Rosie's head. John's afraid that he's blushing. (God, please let him not be blushing.) John gestures at Sherlock with a yogurt-covered spoon and Rosie babbles something while he says, “So are you going to check them, or...”

Sherlock nods, then slides his hand under the table (seemingly to retrieve the phone... yeah. Just to retrieve the phone) and finally transfers his gaze to his cell, clicking it open with practiced swiftness. His brow furrows slightly as he reads the string of texts, then he stands up in one fluid movement, lanky body unfurling. His dressing gown swirls a little bit.

“What is it?” John asks. Even though he knows. Sherlock's got that _look_ on his face: the one that says, 'Somebody has locked multiple corpses in a freezer somewhere and I couldn't be happier to figure out who it was, and also would you like to come follow me as I do stupid things like jump on top of moving cars and swing off of fire escapes,' and John feels his whole body thrum. With excitement, with adrenaline, with anticipation. He almost forgets, for a moment, that there's no way Sherlock will ask him to come. When he remembers, he droops a little. He misses it. Misses them.

“It's Lestrade,” Sherlock says. John wonders if he knows he's smiling. Positively beaming. “A kidnapping. Oh! I love kidnappings! I mean—“ the joy falls from his face as he glances up at John, and his expression becomes flat. Tight. Clearly his attempt at neutral, but heart-breakingly sad at the same time, and John stands too. (He hates that Sherlock knows how to look like this, how to feel like this. If John hadn't... If they'd both just... But John slams the door on that wing of his own Mind Palace firmly shut. That time is in the past. They—Sherlock, John, Rosie—are working on a future now. A better one.)

John stands, but doesn't step forward. Not yet. “I know what you meant,” he says softly. “Go on.”

Sherlock clears his throat and returns his gaze to his phone as his face eases back in to excitement. “That's all he'll tell me. He's just begging me to get down there and solve it—lazy, lazy,” Sherlock admonishes, but the smiles still on his face.

“Do you...” John clears his throat. _Be better,_ he thinks. _This is your first step. Don't fuck it up._ “Do you think you'll want some help on this one? Since it's time-sensitive and all that...”

“You...” Sherlock looks up at him with only his eyes, not moving another muscle in his body. Somehow, it's uncomfortably attractive, John realizes, and then he realizes that he's already realized this and just forgotten to acknowledge it, and then Sherlock is speaking again. “You want to come?”

Oh.

_Oh._

So _that's_ why Sherlock hadn't been asking him on cases lately. Not because he didn't want John there. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. They're both such _idiots._ “Of course I want to come, Sherlock,” John says. “I love coming on cases with you. I miss it, really.” He shuffles slightly from foot to foot and his voice unconsciously lowers. “That's when I was happiest, you know. Those days when all we did was run around and solve crimes... I just. Miss them. Sometimes. Often.”

“You don't—“ Sherlock swallows— “worry about Rosie?” He closes his eyes tightly, twitches his head sharply to the left. He's said the wrong thing, then. “About leaving her?”

John knows what he's trying to say.About leaving her and never returning. “Well for one thing, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson doesn't mind watching Rosie,” he says. “And sure I do. Worry, I mean. But we've outrun death so many times,” he says, advancing slowly towards Sherlock. “What's a few hundred times more? I know you, and I know me, and Sherlock—we make a bloody fantastic team.”

Sherlock watches him for a moment, his pale, delicate features lit almost blue by the light of his phone.

“I'll get dressed,” Sherlock says.

John grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm devising a posting schedule. New chapters will be up every Monday and Friday! Comments/kudos much appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	5. The Only One in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone should find themselves a John, Sherlock thinks.

_sent_ 9:13am

John is coming.

 

**G. Lestrade** 9:14am

Get your arse down here. There's a child gone missing.

 

**G. Lestrade** 9:14am

John's coming, you say? I thought he didn't want to...

 

_typing..._

 

_sent_ 9:15 am

I am not always correct, Detective Inspector.

 

**G. Lestrade** 9:16

You can bet your arse I'm taking a screenshot of THAT. The great Sherlock Holmes, admitting that he's wrong sometimes...

 

**G. Lestrade** 9:17

And that's lovely, Sherlock. It really is. Like I said, we love having him around. He keeps you in line.

 

**G. Lestrade** 9:18

Now hurry the hell up!

* * *

Sherlock let's himself be hauled into a darkened doorway by John. (Strong. For someone so tiny, he really is a bit of a manhandler). He feels his back slam against the cold metal, feels the knob of the door dig into his hip. John presses himself against Sherlock, his arms going around Sherlock's waist, his forehead coming to rest with gentle pressure on Sherlock's (right) shoulder. They're both breathing raggedly: it's been a while since either of them have run this hard on a case, and the adrenaline of it—not to mention the sheer physical exertion—is tugging on their lungs and speeding up their hearts.

Sherlock lets his eyes flutter shut. Lets his arms unlock from their rigid posture to go about John. It isn't really necessary, this embrace that they've assumed, but it would take more than just an angry man with a gun on their heels to force Sherlock to admit that. It's nice, this pocket of darkness and warmth that they've carved for themselves out of a night made of ice and danger and guns, and if both of their hearts are beating several times faster now that their bodies are still than they did when running, well, Sherlock knows that it won't be mentioned when they leave this doorway.

John's shoulders begin to shake, and for a split second Sherlock remembers a day a few months ago when he had held John as he wept, and he worries that that's what is happening now—but no. Sherlock feels the spread of a smile against his shoulder, knows the cadence of the hurriedly smothered giggles coming from the man in his arms.

“Sh,” he hisses, just out of habit, but he knows that a smile of his own is breaking out over his own face. It feels good. John smiling again, laughing again. _Sherlock_ smiling again. Laughing again.

( _I want to be better. With you.)_ ( _Don't worry. You are.)_

They both stiffen when their pursuer—Caucasian, male, early forties, out of shape, thrice divorced, doesn't have custody of the child he's kidnapped hence the kidnapping, clearly deranged—stumbles past their hiding spot. John jerks away from Sherlock and steps into the light of a flickering street lamp, revolver cocked and pointed squarely at the face of the man.

“Hands up,” John pants. The man complies, his hands going shakily beside his ears, mouth hanging open.

Sherlock steps more sedately out of their hiding spot, and circles the frozen man with languid steps. It's exhilarating: they are back to being two halves of a smoothly running whole, John doing his job and Sherlock doing _his_ job, working together to do the work of four times as many men with a quarter of the effort. _Everyone should find themselves a John,_ Sherlock thinks as his eyes flicker up and down, back and forth across their criminal. And then he corrects himself when his John, still grinning like a beautiful lunatic, lowers his revolver so the tip hovers just centimeters above the man's jerking chest. _No. I have the only one in the world. And I'm not sharing._

“Your name is Theodore Parseff. You are forty seven years old, you've been divorced three times, you were recently sacked from your job as the manager of a pub—no, not even manager. You just worked there on weekends, didn't you?” Sherlock stops just behind John. He locks his hands behind his back and tilts his head as he observes Mr. Parseff. The man's eyes have grown enormous. “Never mind, don't answer that question. I don't really care. The main thing is, Mr. Parseff, that we have your daughter Jillian safely guarded down at Scotland Yard, and we have you here, soon to be safely locked away somewhere dreadful. Anything to add?”

“How—how did you—“ Mr. Parseff gasps a little, his gaze flicking back and forth from John to Sherlock as if trying to decide which of them is the more immediate threat. He clearly isn't very smart. It seems quite obvious to Sherlock that whoever holds the gun is probably the one you should worry about first. “How did you know?”

Sherlock smirks and takes a few steps slowly forward so that he's even with John. He extends a hand, and Mr. Parseff just stares at it.

“Go on,” John urges. The gun is completely steady. Not even a tremble. “Take it. He won't bite.”

Mr. Parseff does, albeit reluctantly. His palm is clammy.

“The name's Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock drawls. “Consulting Detective. Only one in the world.”

John smiles at him, and Sherlock smiles back. “And you,” John says, prodding Mr. Parseff in the chest with the tip of his revolver, “are under arrest.” He grins. “Ta.”

 


	6. Moonbeams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Screams—not his own.

And it's sort of perfect, isn't it? They slip back into their previous ways of dashing about London just as easily as if donning a coat, do John and Sherlock. That isn't to say that there aren't still tensions, still differences and ghosts that threaten from the past; but most of what is new is _better_ , somehow. It takes a stupidly long time, but when it hits him one evening as Sherlock bounces Rosie while she's crying and simultaneously texts Lestrade at a furious pace while John loads his gun, John nearly drops the revolver on his foot: he's never been happier.

Standing here in 221B, yelling at Sherlock over his daughter's squalls, loading a gun and anticipating a case that'll get him a thousand views on his blog, easy, once he types it up, it's as if a weight has been lifted from John's shoulders. He feels younger, almost as young as he was when he met Sherlock for the first time in the lab at St. Bart's, and infinitely more content. And as Sherlock lifts his eyes from his phone and passes Rosie to John—their hands brush, then forearms—the future seems suddenly so full of possibilities that John forgets to breathe for a second.

* * *

Hours later they've caught the suspects (there are two of them, huge blokes whose sheer massiveness rather slows them down, in John's opinion). Sherlock dazzles them both with his brilliant deductions as he tosses a pair of handcuffs to John and pulls another out of his coat pocket. He seems extra alive tonight; his eyes are like pale fire, like shooting stars, darting and swooping across the pair of thugs, and his mouth rattles off strings and strings of minutiae. John smiles at him as he cuffs the man standing dejected before him, and that smile widens into a grin as Sherlock takes his time cuffing his own thug. Oh, Sherlock. Drama queen. John's drama queen.

They're on the bank of the Thames, and the moon casts its luminous glow down upon Sherlock, turning him into some sort of ethereal looking being, unreachable and silvery and unbearably beautiful. John is fairly sure the mad wanker knows it, because he shoots John heavy glances every few seconds, just to make sure he's still looking. John wants to tell him that he's always looking. John wants to tell him that he'll never stop looking.

John doesn't.

Instead, he touches.

Just a hand on the edge of a coat sleeve, nothing too adventuresome—but Sherlock startles as if he's been burned, and looks away from the suspect in front of him, turning those moonbeam eyes upon John. His pale cheeks are slightly flushed, and whether it's from the run they've just had or something else, John isn't sure—

(There's movement from the man that Sherlock was supposed to be locking up. Neither Sherlock nor John notice it, and if they had... if they hadn't...)

John doesn't realize, at first, what's happened: knows only that there's a pain underneath his ribs, that it's wet and hot and spreading, and that his legs are no longer working. There is no sound. Everything has gone completely silent, and his mouth opens in a small O as he sinks to the rocky shore...

...Sherlock, in front of him, collapsing beside John... hands, cool, pushing, and John gasps, it burns... Sherlock...

Noise rushes back into John's head in a sharp boom (screams—not his own—his name, over and over, the slap of footsteps, sharp, ragged breathing) and with it, realization:

He's been shot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise things will get better. Just bear with me. XD


	7. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirens. One minute away.
> 
> He doesn't have one minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't wait. Here you go, a whole day early. (I have a funny feeling I won't be sticking to that schedule I proposed.) P.S. Please notice that the warnings/tags have changed for this fic. P.P.S. Thanks to my beta, zigostia, for tweaking this emotional mess!

Time slows down around Sherlock, and John falls in slow motion to the ground. The only thing that moves fast is the flower of darkest red that's blooming across John's stomach, petals shooting from its seed beneath his ribs and undulating grotesquely until the whole thing is huge, is cloying and clawing and heavy—

Sherlock is screaming. He can't make himself stop.

When time swings back into proper alignment, Sherlock is on his knees next to John without any recollection of how he's gotten there, both hands pressed into the horrifyingly warm pool of blood. John is staring up at him, and his eyes are so big and so blue, and Sherlock's scream dies in his throat, turns into a shuddering sob.

"Sher—" John gasps out the beginning of Sherlock's name, his own hands fumbling wildly (Sherlock is reminded jarringly of falling leaves, swept along in a current of air) until they land on Sherlock's. They are cold. They are like ice—

(Sherlock can't think, can't think, can't remember what to do, can't—)

"John," Sherlock sobs. He puts pressure on the whole of John, and John chokes at the pain of it, his bloodless face crumpling briefly. His eyes never leave Sherlock's face. "John. John, John, John, John, John..."

Phone. Dial Lestrade's number, yell into the phone: "It's John, John's been shot, you need to get here _now_ , please, it's John—"

"Fuck," Lestrade says, and that word holds enough terror that Sherlock sobs again, and screams again, even as Lestrade continues to talk, "we're coming. We're coming, just—"

Sherlock hangs up the phone and tosses it aside. It clatters on the ground, the noise oddly sharp in this moment.

John has minutes. _Minutes_ , Sherlock _knows_ this, knows this as he watches the blood stain the whole front of John's torso, then the top of his trousers, the sleeves of Sherlock's coat, both of their hands. Lestrade. He needs to get here _why isn't he here?_

"I called him, I called Lestrade, he's already coming, he's going to be here, John," Sherlock babbles, stroking John's forehead with one bloodstained hand. He hears sirens in the distance, but he knows they're too far away _they're too far away_ —"You—you're—John."

John's eyelids are growing heavy. His blinks come slower and slower and his blood flows faster and faster. Sherlock, grimacing, increases the pressure of his hand under John's and John's eyes fly open.

"Sherlock," he gasps, his breathing loud and rasping. He's crying, but Sherlock can tell he doesn't realize. _My John. My strong, strong John._ "Gotta tell you..." He moans, the sound ripped out of him.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock interjects brokenly. The sirens are approximately two minutes away; two minutes _too far away_ , they need to be here _now_ , "I'm so sorry John—"

And even bleeding, and even in pain, John can still silence Sherlock with a single look. "Gotta tell you... I'm so... so happy, Sh'lock, you..." He smiles, and it is beautiful even though it is broken. "You... make me... happy..."

"You make me happy, you make everyone so happy, and that means that you need to stay, John, you need to stay here and—no!" John's eyes close heavily, his chest hitches, and Sherlock leans down, presses tightly, feels burning blood seep into his skin. "No, John, stay, please, for me, stay for Rosie, we love you John, I love you, I love you so much, John..."

John's breath is coming in short, sticky bursts; his pulse is irregular and fast, fast, fast.

(Sirens. One minute away.)

_(He doesn't have one minute.)_

Sherlock continues talking to John in a frantic pace, but he has no idea what he's saying. His voice is a sobbing whisper now, and he lays himself down on the cold, hard ground next to John, leaving his hands over John's wound and curling himself around him.

"I love you I love you I love you—"

 


	8. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right. He's been shot.
> 
> Good. He's not dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit longer...

He's on something slightly firm and slightly uncomfortable; he feels peculiar, like he should probably be in more pain than he is; the bottom half of him is warm, and his right hand is resting on something firm and fluffy and silky.

Right. He's been shot.

(Again.)

Good. He's not dead.

(Again.)

In this moment, staring at the blackness behind his eyelids, the events of—of whatever that had been—rush into his mind with freewheeling speed: the chase, that moment in the moonlight, and then a bullet to his chest that sent him to the ground. They play in fast forward, until there is... nothing. Nothing but Sherlock's voice, raw and ragged and heartbroken, and a pain so great that the world turns white-hot.

John opens his eyes.

It's Sherlock warming him up. He's curled around the lower half of John's body, one long leg slung over both of John's and the blanket, one arm placed gently across John's lower abdomen. His head is tucked into the right side of John's ribcage, face buried in the stiff fabric of the hospital gown John is wearing, and John realizes that he must have been stroking Sherlock's hair while they both slept. He can see half of Sherlock's face: it is pinched and drawn, there are black smudges under his tightly-shut eyes, and his skin is sallow and pale. His suit is crumpled and his hair is messy, and he looks utterly and completely exhausted.

John feels a sudden surge of love for this man, so strong his breath catches.

Sherlock sits up immediately upon sensing this shift in breathing patterns from John, eyes wild. He scrambles, drawing himself away from John, putting as much distance between them as he can. His own chest heaves as his breath quickens.

"Hey—" John clears his throat. His mouth feels dry and sticky, like it's stuffed full of cotton. He grabs Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock. Hey. It's ok."

Sherlock's hand is warm and soft, and John smiles a bit as he remembers that time (oh, it was years ago, back when they'd first moved in together) when he had caught Sherlock moisturizing heavily with something that was French and cost more than John made in a year.

Sherlock lets out a small noise, now: it sounds like John's name, but it's mixed with a sob, so John can't be sure. Sherlock ducks his head when the sound comes out of him, turns his face so that John cannot see it. His shoulders shake. He tries again: "John," he whispers.

"Yeah," John soothes, tugging on Sherlock's hand until he looks back up at him, and shifts a little bit closer, pulling his legs up until he sits on his knees. He looks terrified as well as exhausted, John sees now, and even though John is the one with a fresh bullet hole in his chest and an old one in his shoulder, he wants to be the one providing the comfort. The one trying to fix things. The one doing better. "Yes, I'm here. I'm fine, you're fine, we're both fine, Sherlock. I promise," John murmurs in a lulling tone.

Sherlock shakes his head back and forth, getting stuck in the rut of repeating that single movement over and over again as his mind spins. "I'm so sorry, John," he says. Shaking shoulders, shaking hands, shaking head. His eyes are pale floodlights. Unblinking. "It was my fault. I didn't—I was trying to impress you and I let him—" He breaks off, breath heavy.

John slides his hand out of Sherlock's and lifts it, placing his palm against Sherlock's cheek and stilling the motion of his vigorously shaking head. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut when John's skin comes in contact with his, and another shiver goes through him before he falls still, shoulders slumping forward.

"Listen to me, Sherlock," John says in a low voice. He would really like some water—it feels like he's talking through a mouthful of sand, and his head is pounding like someone with a hammer's taken up residence inside—but all of that can wait. He's beginning to remember just what those words were that Sherlock was saying before John lost consciousness, and they aren't the kind one can just forget about.

"It wasn't your fault. We were both distracted. We were..." John clears his throat, licks his lips. Sherlock's eyes are still closed and he's breathing in breath after deep, shuddering breath through his chapped lips, and does he have any idea how fucking gorgeous he is?

"The point is, it was just as much your fault as it was mine. You don't need to... Please don't blame yourself for this." His voice drops lower. His thumb brushes against one of those cheekbones methodically, back and forth. "Please. For me."

Sherlock's eyes fly open. _Shit_ , John thinks, because that voice he'd just used had not been a platonic friend sort of voice, and then, _well, it's now or never. Be better, Watson._

John takes a deep breath. "Sherlock—" he whispers.

The door opens.

Sherlock jumps, but John doesn't take his hand away. They were so close...

The woman who strides in stops short when she sees Sherlock perched next to John on the bed, and her mouth goes tight around the edges. She's a nurse, John guesses, judging by the attire and the way she carries herself, and he can tell she's annoyed but doing her valiant best to suppress it in front of the patient. She gives John a long-suffering smile, and crosses to his bed. "Hello, Mr. Watson," she says.

"Doctor," Sherlock corrects her. He moves back a bit, and John's hand falls off his cheek, lands on his arm. He gives it a light squeeze. "Doctor Watson."

The woman cuts her eyes to Sherlock and sighs. "Mr. Holmes. What did I tell you about getting in bed with Doctor Watson? I brought you that chair, since you insisted on staying in here until he was awake, but you were supposed to use it—"

"Hang on," John cuts in. He wants to sit up, but his whole body feels like—like—well, like he's been shot. He doubts that he could turn his head, much less move the whole upper half of his body. "How long have I been..." Another thought strikes him, and he accidentally squeezes Sherlock's arm harder than necessary. "And where's Rosie? Who's she with—"

"She's at Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and my father and mother, all of whom I forced to stay there until we can come back home," Sherlock rushes to explain before John can get into a full-blown panic.

The nurse hands John a small plastic cup full of water and he drinks it gratefully, mostly just to give him time to think. He's feeling uncomfortably full of emotions here in front of this stranger, and he just wishes she would leave so he could talk to Sherlock... Or, better yet, snog him. Unfortunately, she continues puttering around, checking his vitals and sitting his bed up and fluffing his pillows and—

"You made your parents come down to watch my daughter," John says, and his voice is a little bit faint.

Sherlock regards him solemnly, and covers John's hand with his own where it rests on his forearm. "You've been here for two days already," he says, and he's still so pale, and John _just wants the fucking nurse to leave them the fuck alone_ ,” and Molly and Mrs. Hudson have never had a child, so I thought that bringing people down who have had a bit more experience would be beneficial."

"Beneficial, yeah," John echoes. He's imagining them all cramped in 221B, imagining the lovely Mrs. and Mr. Holmes caring for Rosie like she's their granddaughter, and his eyes sort of sting. _I want_... he thinks, but his mind doesn't complete the thought.

"Come here," he says instead, and pulls Sherlock to him, sliding his arm around thin shoulders and smiling when Sherlock rests his head easily against John's neck. Sherlock burrows into John's side, and a soft little noise escapes his lips.

_God._

The nurse is at the foot of the bed now, and she's staring at them over crossed arms with a bemused sort of smirk on her face. "He told me you were flatmates," she says, jerking her chin at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes are closed, and he's carefully slipped one arm under John's back, and he's clearly done talking to this woman. John sighs, but it's fond: looks like he still has to be the polite one.

"That's right," he says, threading his fingers through Sherlock's curls. Sherlock makes that soft little breathy sound again and _Christ_ —

_"Just_ flatmates, huh?" she asks.

John raises his chin a notch. _Do it, Watson. Do. It_. "Absolutely not," he says softly. Sherlock stills beneath his hands. God, has he stopped breathing?

"He's been here with you the whole time, you know," the nurse says. She's still smiling, and it's the type of smile that, years ago, John would have bristled at. A smile full of implication, a smile that means _there's more, isn't there_. He welcomes those smiles now. "Wouldn't leave. I'm pretty sure he hasn't eaten, either, so you might want to..." She trails off, shaking her head a little. "Anyway. The doctor will be in soon."

John just continues stroking Sherlock's hair, and smiles.

* * *

Turns out, John is very, very lucky that he isn't dead. Turns out, John doesn't really like contemplating that.

So he doesn't.

Their friends—John and Sherlock's friends—come to visit them in the hospital over the next few days, bringing Rosie with them as often as they can, and they keep the topics of all of their conversations as far away from death and guns and bullets as they can. They've been through this before, John realizes: when Mary shot Sherlock and John had been there in the hospital with him. God. How many times would all of them have to go through this?

And John is grateful that they come, he really is, but every minute that he isn't alone with Sherlock, every minute that he can't kiss him and tell him... Tell him—

It's just that they've already wasted so much time, haven't they? Or, no: _John_ has wasted so much time. The more he observes Sherlock and his fragile, almost pious devotion to John and Rosie, the more John realizes that Sherlock would have been up for anything almost since he and John first met.

It hurts to be hit with this. Hurts to suddenly know that all of those years of pain and heartbreak could have been spared from the both of them... But then again, John wouldn't have Rosie then, would he, and neither would Sherlock, and John wouldn't trade either his daughter or the way Sherlock's eyes light up when he holds her for the world.

Sherlock is curled in the chair next to John's bed now, an open case file spread across his crossed legs ( _thanks, Lestrade_ , John thinks), his chin in one hand as he lets out a constant stream of invective under his breath. The annoying nurse (whose name they've since learned is Linda) is buzzing around both of them, and John has a feeling that she's just waiting for something romantic and exciting to happen. _Nothing romantic or exciting is going to happen if you don't go the hell away,_ John wants to say.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock looks up immediately, abandoning both the file and his outpouring of insults at the sound of John's voice. Something that has nothing to do with bullet holes tightens in John's chest at the sliver of fear that, even now, lurks in Sherlock's eyes. "Are you alright?" he asks John in a soft voice.

The nurse moves so that she's standing behind Sherlock, mouths "Kiss him!" to John as she points aggressively at the top of Sherlock's head, and then rolls her eyes when John ignores her.

"I'm fine," John says, and is a bit startled to discover that it's true. He's fine. He really, really is. "But I think you should leave."

Damn. That hadn't been the thing to say. Linda throws up her hands in exasperation. Sherlock opens his mouth and then sort of just sits there, looking sad but also like he doesn't _want_ to look sad, and John rushes to explain: "Not forever. Not even for the whole day. I mean, not unless you want to, I just think... Well, you've been cooped up in here for days, and just eating hospital food, and I know you miss your violin and Rosie and I'm sure she misses you and the point I'm trying to make _is_ —" John takes a deep breath. He can't talk. He doesn't want to talk. He wants to kiss, and to kiss in _private_ —"that I don't want you to feel like you have to stay here with me if you don't want to."

Sherlock doesn't look sad anymore. No. He looks indignant. "John," he says, tilting his head slightly to the right and giving John one of his signature looks out of the corner of those floodlight eyes. "John. I _always_ want to be with you."

He says it so simply. So matter-of-factly. John can't help but believe it's true.

He swallows heavily and blinks a few times. _I love you_. "Right. Ok. Thank you, Sherlock."

"Of course," Sherlock says in a tone of superior graciousness, and goes back to his case file.

Linda nearly collapses to the floor.

* * *

Sherlock is on a coffee run and John is miraculously Linda-free when the door to his room opens and a tall, elegant figure fills the doorway.

John lets out a laugh. There's just so much _Sherlock_ in her. "Mrs. Holmes," he says, true warmth seeping into his tone. And then, with a smile so big his cheeks hurt, "Rosie! Come here, love!"

She's dressed in a little yellow outfit with Saturn on the front of it (Sherlock, after deciding that he had better learn the solar system with a child in the house, has developed a zealous love of all things planetary and keeps buying things for Rosie in the hopes that she'll catch on) and wriggling in Mrs. Holmes' grip, stretching her hands out towards John as she gurgles.

Mrs. Holmes smiles and makes her way across the room, gently transferring Rosie into John's waiting arms. "Hello, dear," she says as he presses a kiss to the top of his daughter's head and then sits her on his legs, careful of his bandaged chest.

"Have a seat," John says, gesturing somewhat awkwardly to Sherlock's rarely-used chair that still sits very close to the right side of John's bed.

Mrs. Holmes sits primly, folding her legs at the ankles. She watches John and Rosie as Rosie grabs one of John's hands and begins gnawing on his forefinger, and John shifts uncomfortably; the Holmes stare is fixed upon him, and he can feel himself being deduced right this very minute.

"Sherlock told me that he made you and Mr. Holmes come stay at our flat with Rosie," John says, because she isn't talking and he has a compulsive need to fill awkward silences. "Thank you very much for that. I didn't ask him to—well. Obviously. I was unconscious." He laughs a little at his own words, even though they weren't funny, and feels some of the tension escape the room when Mrs. Holmes smiles at him.

"It's no trouble at all, dear," she says. She pats Rosie on the head and Rosie grins at her, shrieking a string of syllables that sound fond. "My husband and I just love your little girl."

She lifts her eyes to John, and there's something almost accusatory in them that come so suddenly, John almost does a double take. Her tone changes, and while it's still fond, it's somehow... calculating now. "Sherlock does too, you know."

John swallows. "I know," he says. "And we... Rosie..." He clears his throat and wishes he was better at this. Emotions. "She loves him so much."

The woman just stares at John for a moment, as if deciding what to say next. Finally, she squares her shoulders and shifts slightly forwards in Sherlock's chair. "I'm going to jump right in and say this, and I trust that it won't send you into a relapse? Sherlock would be devastated if it did."

"Mrs. Holmes—"

"Mummy," she interjects imperiously. "You must call me Mummy."

John doesn't remember what he was going to say. This whole encounter seems absurdly surreal, like it's happening in a dream. He plays with the curls at the nape of Rosie's neck and wishes that he could sink into the mattress and disappear from view. He just nods.

"Sherlock is in love with you, John," she says. Her voice is smooth, kind. She lays a hand on his where it rests atop the blanket, and he hopes (oh god he hopes) that she can't feel the thundering in his pulse that those six words caused through his skin. "He has been ever since he met you, even if he didn't realize it at first. He would do anything for you; he has already done unspeakable things for you, but he would do them all over again if he thought they would save you. When you were shot..." She trails away. There are tears in her eyes, John notices with a wild feeling of terror.

She shakes her head slightly. "I have rarely known my youngest son to be so distraught, John, as he was when he thought you were not going to live. It almost broke him."

John is the one who's tearing up now. Sherlock has been through so much, far too much, enough for a lifetime—and all because of John. Guilt swallows him, then a fiercely protective wave that almost has him up out of the bed and running through the sterile halls until he can find Sherlock and hold him.

Mummy squeezes John's hand with her long fingers. The gesture is a warning as much as it is a display of affection. "William and I consider you almost a son of our own, John," she says in a soft voice. "But I want you to know this: if you break Sherlock, if you are careless with that fragile heart that he tries so hard not to let people see, then I will not have a choice but to make sure that Sherlock never comes in contact with you or your daughter again. You have saved him many times, yes, but just as many times you have nearly been his undoing."

A soft smile tempers his words. "A love as strong as the one you two have should be fed, not starved, John. You need to feed it, and you need to feed it soon, or else it will consume Sherlock where he stands."

John doesn't realize that he's shaking until Rosie makes a faintly dissatisfied noise, and he breathes out deeply through his nose. "I'm going to," he says urgently. "Feed it, I mean. I—god, I love him too, more than I've ever loved anyone else, more than I loved Mary, and I was stupid, I was an idiot, wasn't I, because I was too scared, I was too scared—" He breaks off, takes another deep breath, tries to still the hand that is holding Rosie gently by the shoulder.

"I never should have married her. When he came back I should have told him, because I knew, I knew as soon as he fell, but it was too late then. And then he was alive and in my life, and I went right back to my old ways of being scared, and I let him slip by, and I hurt him..." His voice lowers, catches. Mummy has taken his hand in both of her's, now, rubbing soothing circles across his knuckles.

"I love him so much," John whispers. "And I'm going to show him."

Mummy lifts one hand and pats John on the cheek with a maternal tenderness that he hasn't been shown since his own mother died. "Tell him, not me," she says softly with a little grin, even as her eyes are wet and red. "Tell Sherlock."

"I'm going to—"

The door opens for a second time with no warning and Sherlock strides in. He's holding two steaming paper cups full of shitty hospital coffee, one in each big hand, and John can see a little bulge in the pocket of his suit, the very edge of a packet of sugar peeking over the dark fabric.

When Sherlock sees his mother sitting there by John's bed he stops short, and his eyes immediately narrow with suspicion. "Mummy," he says, not bothering with a greeting, "what are you doing to John?"

"Just having a chat, weren't we, dear?" Mummy says. She gives one last pat to John's cheek when he nods his silent agreement, then stands and crosses to where Sherlock is frozen in the middle of the small room. She kisses him on the forehead. "Just a chat."

Sherlock peers around Mummy to gaze at John searchingly. _I love you_ , John thinks inconveniently and a bit wildly. "Did she threaten you?" Sherlock asks.

_Yes._ "No." _But I deserved it._ "Not at all." John smiles the best he can, clears his throat again, and is glad when Rosie cranes her neck around at the sound of Sherlock's voice.

The suspicion melts off of Sherlock's face and a smile takes its place. He comes to John's bed, setting the coffees on the little wheeled table on the left side, and crawls onto the mattress next to John, perching cross-legged. He takes Rosie into his arms and sits her on his lap so that she's facing John, and then begins bouncing her gently.

John's eyes meet Mummy's above Sherlock's head. John nods.

 


	9. You Fill Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to tell John that he loves him. He wants to tell John that he has loved him for longer than he can possibly know. But words do not feel like enough.

"I'm fine. I am. Nothing's going to happen to me while I'm brushing my teeth, Sherlock."

Sherlock shifts uneasily from foot to foot. He isn't sure about that. "Statistically probably not," he agrees. "But many things _could_ happen. You could slip and hit your head. Maybe there's an ingredient in that new toothpaste you bought that you're allergic to, and you might go into anaphylactic shock. Um. The ceiling could fall in." Then, at John's incredulous look, "It _could_ , John, you know it could."

John is leaning carefully against the wall beside the bathroom door, his arms crossed gingerly over his chest. He grins a little bit at Sherlock, and Sherlock scowls back. "All of those things could happen at any time, Sherlock, and you've never insisted on following me into the toilet while I get ready for bed before, have you?"

Sherlock feels the scowl on his face deepen. "You've never had a bullet hole in your chest before," he counters. "Besides, you did all this for me when I was shot, so I really think you should shut up and let me take care of you. And I let you change into pyjamas unattended, so. God, it's true what they say. Doctors really _do_ make the worst patients."

John's expression softens a little bit, and, to Sherlock's surprise, he steps forward and takes Sherlock by the hand. "Alright," he says as he leads him to the bathroom, his steps still slow, still slightly stilted. "I'm sorry." John tugs on Sherlock's hand and maneuvers him until he's standing in front of the closed loo, then pushes gently on his shoulders until he sits down with a thump. John smiles, and it's soft and slow and secret. His voice sounds like honey when he says, "Take care of me."

Sherlock can't breathe. Can't speak. All he can do is watch as John turns away from him to lean against the counter and take his toothbrush out of the little china cup they keep them in.

John's eyes flick up from the toothpaste he's applying ( _hope you aren't allergic,_ Sherlock thinks distantly) and meet Sherlock's in the mirror above the sink. He's still wearing that same smile, and Sherlock feels strangely violated. He feels as if that smile is sneaking inside of him and stealing all of his breath away, jump-starting his heart so that it rockets blood through his veins, thrumming low in his stomach.

John turns on the tap. The way his shoulders move beneath his plain cotton shirt is criminal.

"So what happened to those men we were chasing before I...?"

Sherlock starts. It takes him entirely too long to realize that he should answer John's question instead of just sit there, watching, wanting. "Oh. I. Um. Lestrade wouldn't let me go after them, so still alive, unfortunately. Though incarcerated, which I suppose is good..." He trails off, and hopes John doesn't notice that he's omitting things. Things like the fact that it took four people to keep him from running after those two men and beating them to a pulp. It didn't matter, in that moment (or this one) which one of them had actually put the bullet in John; only that one of them had, and both of them were criminals, and Sherlock had felt like he was being burned from the inside out.

John raises his eyebrows and says around his toothbrush, "Locked away where you can't get at them?"

Sherlock nods. Watches John bend carefully and rinse out his mouth. Follows the lines of his arms as he replaces his toothbrush in the cup. "Sadly," Sherlock murmurs.

John straightens once more and dries his mouth on the flannel hanging beside the sink. His eyes drift upwards again. Lock with Sherlock's.

Sherlock's skin floods with heat. It's not the fierce, gnawing, almost icy heat of rage and fear that he felt when John was in danger of dying; no, this heat is pleasant but not dull, tingling and suffusing and consuming and there's _no way_ John can't see—

John's eyes are widening in the mirror. He looks stricken, almost tragic, and he's frozen in place. Shame mixes with the raw longing flooding through Sherlock, and he brings his hands to his cheeks, mortified. He presses his fingers into hot skin and squeezes his eyes shut, because if he is just still and quiet and small then maybe—maybe—

"Sherlock."

John is there. Sherlock's eyes are still closed, but he can sense him, hovering inches away, exuding his singularly remarkable John-presence from every cell, every pore. Sherlock's breath won't leave his lungs; it stays, nestled stale and stagnant, deep in his chest, and the tepid weight of it pulls him further into himself. He is dizzy.

He starts when he feels John's hands on his wrists, and the air rolls out of him with a propelling sort of gasp. His eyes fly open as John gently pulls Sherlock's hands away from his cheeks, and he is accosted with a face full of John. His blue eyes are close and sad and Sherlock _quivers_ with the effort it takes not to draw John into his chest and keep him nestled there forever.

Sherlock can feel the moment that it consumes him: this steady pulse of _I want I want I want I want_ rising up and engulfing him like a wave, pulling him under and drowning him and stealing his air—

"I want," he whispers, and is horrified. He doesn't mean for the words to escape, they just do. He wants to clap his hands over his mouth to keep them in, but John still has hold of his wrists.

(John's breath, minty and almost tangible on Sherlock's lips).

"I want—I want—"

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asks, his own voice just as quiet as Sherlock's and just as raw. His eyes skitter and bounce across Sherlock's face at a rapid pace, and his pulse dances at hyper speed at the base of his throat. ( _Want to put my tongue there, taste you_ —) He leans in even closer. "What do you want?"

"I want _you_!"

The answer explodes out of Sherlock with such force that John almost stumbles backwards, almost takes his hands away—but doesn't. Instead he just flinches, and then is still. And that is somehow worse than if he had turned away, because John is always so strong, always resilient, even in the face of danger and untold horrors and he _wouldn't_ do anything, wouldn't react in a way that would hurt Sherlock because—because—

His eyes would just darken—like _that,_ exactly like that, _god_ —and everything about him would dim with sadness and regret—yes like _that_ —

It's too much. Sherlock wrenches his wrists out of John's grasp and pushes past him, launching himself off of the toilet and out of the bathroom, down the hall, to his room. He shuts his door behind him with a bang, ignoring John's shout of "Sherlock!" ( _Rosie_ , Sherlock thinks for a moment, wildly, and then remembers that she's still downstairs with Mrs. Hudson until John is okay again, and Sherlock's sounds won't have awoken her). A closed door won't stop John, Sherlock knows this, but with John in the state he is, it'll at least delay him for a few seconds.

Sherlock paces until he's reached the very center of his bedroom. He forces himself to stand perfectly still, eyes shut tightly, hands pressing hard hard hard at his temples.

Breathe.

( _John is going to move away and take Rosie with him and I'll be alone again and I can't do it I can't—_ )

Breathe.

( _Why did I say that I know he doesn't want that I've ruined it all and I can't_ —)

Breathe.

( _Can't_ —)

Breathe—

_I can't breathe._

His door opens—squeaking hinges—and he forces himself to be completely frozen. Impassive. Unreachable.

John's tread, soft but not hesitant, irregular but sure, coming closer.

Sherlock opens his eyes.

John is just behind him now.

Sherlock lowers his hands from his head. They are shaking.

John's breath is warm on the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Sherlock," John says softly. "Can I kiss you?"

The whole universe tips suddenly on its side and Sherlock turns sharply, his center of balance so off-kilter that he sways where he stands. He gapes, and he is burning again, and John just looks at him, his shoulders squared and his eyes tragic and his mouth set in an earnest line.

"John," Sherlock whispers. His voice is shaking, and dimly, through a haze that's encroaching upon his vision from the edges of the room, he notices that the rest of him is shaking, too. "I never took you to be cruel. Oblivious, yes. But never..." His voice breaks, and he has to wait, to pause, to let the needles pricking behind his eyelids cease. "Never cruel."

This couldn't be happening. John would never—would never—

"Oh my god," John breathes, and his deep-galaxy-eyes are wet and shimmering. His face crumples. He reaches for Sherlock, lifting his hands and letting one come to rest at the back of Sherlock's neck where it settles, palm cupping his neck, fingers curling around until they almost brushed the base of his throat, thumb wandering up into the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck and stroking lightly. "I'm so sorry," he says, and the other hand flutters impossibly closer (so close that Sherlock can feel the heat of it) before landing on Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock can't help himself. He lets himself sway into John's touch, lets himself take a shuddering breath that hurts his lungs.

John gives him a tiny smile. He moves closer, closer, until his feet are placed between Sherlock's on the hardwood floor. Slides his hand off of Sherlock's cheek, down, down, down, until it comes to rest at the dip of Sherlock's waist, and squeezes gently.

Sherlock shudders. It is sharp and bone-deep and complete, and he wants everything to _stop._

John tilts his head up. Pulls Sherlock's head towards his own. Breathes a warm cloud across Sherlock's lips, and then rubs his nose once, decidedly, against Sherlock's own.

"I'm sorry," John whispers again, using that nose again to nudge lightly against Sherlock's chin. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock makes a keening noise in the back of his throat and lets his head fall back. He can't stop himself; his whole body is trembling with want and hurt and fear and shame and love, and John has complete and utter control over him. Like he always does.

"... I'm sorry..."

John's lips are warm and smooth when they ghost gently over the hollow between Sherlock's clavicle bones. Burning as they work their way up the column of Sherlock's throat, and positively incendiary when they reach the bottom of a jaw bone, hovering there, lingering there...

When they at last brush Sherlock's own lips, they sear.

It takes all the strength Sherlock has just to take his lips off of John's, to pull out of his arms and stumble backwards and _stop_. Because he refuses to let this happen. He refuses to accidentally follow through with a dream, because the waking up will be all the more painful. John stares at him with huge, wet eyes, and for every step that Sherlock takes away, John takes one closer.

"Please don't do this, John. This isn't what you want," Sherlock says. He is whispering, his voice dead, but it doesn't matter: it's true. John doesn't want this, has _never_ wanted this. That much has been clear since the very beginning. And Sherlock has worked, oh how he has worked, to keep how he feels hidden, only to fail now. He shakes his head, and realizes that he's clutching at his chest with both hands, just to keep his heart in his chest. "John, this isn't what—you don't want me—" He's pressed against the wall now, and the cold, smooth paint chills him to the bone. He wants John's warmth. "You don't want me—"

"I _do_." John slides his arms around Sherlock's rib cage, pinning him to his own smaller body, and Sherlock is helpless to resist. (Doesn't _want_ to resist.) John is breathing hard. "Sherlock. _I love you."_

Sherlock flashes hot, and then cold, very quickly and without warning. His knees are shaking, rattling, and if John were not holding him so tightly to his own wounded chest, Sherlock would be on the floor. He grips John's shirt tightly in both fists and buries his face in John's shoulder.

_John. John. John. John. Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn._

_(Smells like home.)_

"That's impossible," he says at last. Because it's true.

John makes a noise that's either a laugh or a sob, but sounds more like the latter. "Oh, Sherlock," he says, pulling Sherlock away from the wall and stroking lines up and down his back. Sherlock shivers again, and tries his very best to burrow as close to John as he can, wanting the heat of him, the flame. Even if it's a dream. Because he's a masochist like that. "I've loved you for so long. I've... I've been an idiot. I _am_ an idiot. You're... you're so... and I can't..."

John pulls back a little. Kisses him again. It's tender and vast and important, and John is touching Sherlock like he's the most precious thing John's ever beheld.

"I don't understand—" Sherlock gasps, and lets his eyes close. Lets John kiss him. Kisses John back. "How can you possibly love me—"

"Oh, love," John breathes against his mouth. It's a spoonful of honey. A drop of sunshine. "How can I possibly not?"

" _John_ ," Sherlock moans, and he buries his face in the side of John's neck. He's crying; he can feel tears leaving wet, hot tracks down his cheeks, but it doesn't matter.

Because it's true.

John _wants_ him.

John _loves him_.

"Oh, love," John murmurs over and over again, his words mingling with Sherlock's. "Oh, Sherlock." He's crying too (Sherlock can hear it) and he's shaking like a leaf in Sherlock's grasp, his breath coming in short wheezes. Sherlock pulls back abruptly when he remembers.

"Your chest," he says. His own chest feels like it's going to explode when John Watson, _his_ John Watson, looks up at him with an expression that Sherlock wants to be a tangible thing, something that he can carry around in his pocket and look at on bad days. "Your chest."

"Fuck my chest," John whispers, lifting one hand and wiping at the cooling trails of liquid on Sherlock's cheeks.

"No," Sherlock responds. He feels a surge of bravery spurred on by the fortifying thought that this is real. This is happening. "Bed."

John looks hungry in a way that Sherlock has never seen him look before. (Sherlock feels faint.) His hand in Sherlock's hair tightens, and his eyes flutter closed briefly. When he speaks, his voice is ragged. "As much as I would love to do that," he pants, "I don't think I'm physically up to it just now, my love."

"Just to sleep, John. I—" Sherlock hesitates. His heart is still hammering, and he can't quite believe any of this is real. "I want you there beside me so I can know that you are happening to me." John is staring at him, his mouth open slightly, and Sherlock feels his heart sink into the bottom of his stomach. "Not if you don't want to..."

John's smile is nearly blinding. "Which side do you prefer?"

And Sherlock nearly sobs again. (This can't be happening, not to him. And not with this perfect, brilliant, amazing man.) (But it is. It really, really is.) He can't speak, so he just shakes his head, a silent deference to whatever John prefers. John nods, and takes his head, leading him to Sherlock's bed.

Without words passing between them, Sherlock folds down the top layer of blankets and then helps John onto the mattress, easing him down as gently as he possibly can so as not to jar his wound. Sherlock switches off the light but he can feel John's eyes on him in the darkness, their gaze weighty as he climbs in on the other side of the bed and carefully pulls the covers up over them both, and he shivers.

Sherlock turns on his side, feels John do the same. They are facing each other, faces inches apart. "Me too," Sherlock whispers.

"Hm?" John hums, a low throb. His arm snakes over Sherlock's ribs, pulling him closer. Sherlock smiles, and returns the gesture so that they're tangled up in each other.

(Is it possible to die of bliss?)

He wants to tell John that he loves him. He wants to tell John that he has loved him for longer than he can possibly know. But words do not feel like enough.

"I... My heart is not my own," Sherlock begins. His voice is a heavy, rasping murmur. "You have crawled inside of me, John Watson; you have made a home for yourself in my chest cavity, and you have taken every last bit of my heart and made it your own. I am ever, as I have always been, completely and entirely yours. You fill me up."

John's eyes shine in the blackness of Sherlock's room— _their room_. Two pinpricks of light. "I have never loved anyone as much as I love you," he whispers brokenly. "I shouldn't have ever married—I'm sorry—"

"Shhh," Sherlock lulls. He knows. John knows. He tips his head and kisses John as tenderly as he possibly can on the cheek, then tucks his chin on the top of John's head when John burrows into his chest.

There will be time for more later. They will say all of the things that they have never said, and they will explore each other and worship each other in ways that they have only dreamed of for years. They will raise their child in a flat full of a love that is stronger than time and heartache and pain, and they will make up for those years with laughter and love and devotion. They will heal. They will be better.

But for now, they sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we have reached the end. I'd like to thank you all for being so wonderful throughout this whole process—your kind words are the fuel that I run on. If you'd ever like to chat, you can find me on Twitter @unicornpoe. Thank you again!


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